LEAVE OF ABSENCE

Dear Readers,


I am taking a leave from my blog to reassess my writing priorities and direction. Immense thanks to all who have read, encouraged and supported; all that you have offered has been so appreciated!  I will keep you posted! 

CHRISTMAS IN JUNE

Written at Zee's Writing Studio 6/6/12, based on this New Yorker cover from December 19, 1942.

                                                                                                       
Growing up, our family had a tradition of trudging out in knee-high snow to cut down our own Christmas tree.  There was an abundance of pine trees scattering the woods that surrounded our farm in Mecklenburg, so much so that we would have endless debates about which was the perfect tree.  Coming across an old family photo of my sisters and I in front of one of those trees, circa early 70’s, made me realize how unfathomably skewed our perception of perfect was! This tree was a monstrosity; it looked like an overgrown long-armed Texas cactus gone seriously awry.  One long branch jutted out, mid-tree, and then grew straight up, forming a right angle.  Then there was a huge gap before another branch twisted toward the back.  Picture us heaving a thick rope of silver garland over it and you get the picture.  The absurdity of it all, coupled with the realization that what I saw as a child was so far from reality, made me laugh till I peed myself.  I made enlarged copies for my three sisters and felt such a sense of glee and accomplishment when, they too, peed themselves laughing.  It’s become a tradition at Christmas for me to prop this photo proudly in between the branches of my most-definitely-finally-perfect Christmas tree.  I wonder what my daughter will see when she looks back at photos of these trees...
It was the experience and ritual, more than the actual tree, however, that was so rich for me.  We did so little as a family that this outing took on unreal proportions in my mind and heart.
My sisters and I would stuff ourselves in our bulky one-piece Snowmobile suits, turning us into mini Michelin men.  Trying to move through thigh-high snow was a little tricky when you couldn’t bend your knees, but we reveled in it, nevertheless.  Then there was the dilemma of what to do, when deep into woods you realized you had to pee.  Oh, the chore of waddling back to the house and peeling off this cocoon that was now stuck to your skin and clothes because you were sweating and freezing at the same time and then having to pull and tug it all back on! So daunting! So, inevitably, I would just stand there and pee. Hey, at least it was warm!
My Dad had little patience for our pickiness, (I wonder if that’s how we wound up with the cactus) so once a decision was made he swiftly whipped out his rusty hand-saw, cut down the tree and dragged it back to the house by its trunk.  I loved how the tree swept the snow behind it, making a path to follow.  I resisted the urge to leap on the back as if it were a chaise and as if I were Cleopatra.  My Dad didn’t go for those sorts of antics, so I kept those ideas to myself.  I wonder how different I would be if he did--if he played along or even encouraged such a thing?  I used to spend a lot more time longing for the past to be different but not so much anymore.  I am more aware of how doing so robs me of what’s actually happening right now.  Or, as someone said, how you can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.  Can I accept that which I can’t change? Yes, I can.  Would it have been better if it had been different?  I honestly don’t know.  The part of me that felt hurt, ignored, unappreciated and unloved tells me yes.  Do I like who I am today? Yes; so there you go.  I know that the more I can accept what is without needing to assign meaning to it one way or another, the happier and more peaceful I am.  And honestly, everything is a matter of perspective--the stories we make up about people, places and things and the meanings we attach to them.  It’s all in how you see it.  Kind of like those Christmas trees of my youth....

2 AMERICANS

Written at Zee's Writing Studio on June 12, 2012.  Our assignment was to choose from a variety of postcards of paintings and were then given a list of words/sentences from the June issue of Harper's Magazine. We could marry the words and images in any way we felt inspired. I chose three images and challenged myself to use all of the words/sentences.  Enjoy!


From Harper's Magazine, June 2012:

wish you were here   2 Americans   the last 10 years
my old man   the attractions are obvious   silence/shapes
"what is this? corn?"   her little brothers best friend
19th birthday   yawning too much   this is alarming
in a tunnel of concentration   wild things   she silently repeats okay, okay, okay  the dry grass of August   she is not speaking   a white blankness  book of my mother   syllable, porcelains, beach, cup, snail, lamp, and pie

Oh, my darling, I wish you were here.  Here we are, 2 Americans stuck in this hovel in Paris, so far from you.  What was I thinking when I agreed to this adventure with Marge?  Yes, the attractions are obvious.  I mean, just look at this photograph of the two of us in the chair--me, belly swollen with our beloved spawn; her long and lithe.  Me, raven-haired and pursed-lips; her all flaxen and peachy.  Day and night.  Night and day.  We fit together so well and, yet, I must say this is alarming in ways too many to mention.

Our photograph was taken by the petulant child downstairs who is often lost in a tunnel of concentration over God knows what.  She knocked on our door asking for a cup of coffee for her sisters 19th birthday, all the while yawning too much.  I don’t quite know what to make of this family we’re staying with.  They seem to me to be a tribe of wild things; mysterious and spooky.  The mother sits in a chair, watching her cat play, while she silently repeats okay, okay, okay.  When she is not speaking, her face takes on a white blankness until suddenly, she looks up and shouts, “What is this? Corn?”  It’s a madhouse, I tell you, and it can’t be good for the baby.  I wish to come home immediately! I never thought I would yearn for the dry grass of August back home.  I console myself with the fact that I will leave this dreadful place in one week’s time and with the fact that this is the 1st time we have been apart in the last 10 years.  That, however, hardly seems like much of a consolation. It feels more like a punishment for going off in the first place.  As much as being away from you pains me, it gives me a greater appreciation of you, my darling.
At least I have been able to work on the book of my mother, often by the dim oil lamp when the house is quiet.  I usually write for an hour until the baby starts kicking, then I take a break and have just a sliver of fresh blackberry pie that I’ve made sure to have on hand. Oh, how delicious it is in its tart sweetness! Oh, how hard it is to not eat the whole thing, purple syrup dripping down my chin and staining my dressing gown!  I do love the silence at night and the shapes that the shadows make while they dance across the floor against the flickering light.  I eat my pie on the finest of porcelains, which also reminds me of you and your love of finery.  Do you remember how appalled you were at the beach when, instead of porcelain place settings, we found cracked and chipped dishes of various patterns? The shock and disdain on your face! And the snail that inhabited your slipper that evening? Oh, what a travesty! I must admit, darling, to laughing about it right now. Please don’t be displeased with me, my love.
I can hear that wretched child from downstairs right now.  She is singing “This Old Man” but has changed the words to “My Old Man.” Do you know that earlier, after taking our photograph, she blurted out that she had to look after her little brother’s best friend and leapt away so fast that she spilled the coffee all over the entryway? What a strange lot! There’s more here than meets the eye, I assure you, and if I had the energy I would get to the bottom of it. As it stands, I haven’t the energy or interest to engage in such foolishness. I am absolutely and completely exhausted and must retire now, my darling, to dreams of coming home to the safety of your arms. But before I dress for bed and bid you farewell I must utter one last syllable: Help!

Your loving wife,
Veronica

KISSING CONTEST

Written 5/15/12 at Zee’s Writing Studio. Inspired by this postcard titled “Kissing Contest” from 1937 and a certain someone...

                                                                                               

Let’s have our own Kissing Contest! What would the rules be? How long could we kiss in one long stretch? Or how many kisses we could fit into a designated time? Or how many places we could brush our lips across each others’ skin? Would it count if we mistakenly kissed the same spot twice? Three times? Or how about a contest to see in how many locations we could kiss? We could start right here, right now and then move through the day and the night and start all over again in the morning. We could follow the “Wash, rinse, repeat” instructions.  We could kiss across a crowded room with our eyes.  We could kiss with our voices while singing a Lucinda Williams song.  We could kiss in the morning, through your window, as I spy you eating oatmeal at the table. We could kiss right after you call me Ms. Culver.  We could kiss in Greenstar and set off the alarm.  We could kiss at Cascadilla Falls while eating our lunch as the water rushes past us.  We could kiss in Mr. Bell’s class during School of Rock. We could kiss at Friday Morning Program. We could kiss on my porch, at twilight, while a soft rain falls.  We could kiss on the couch, for hours.  We could kiss on a bench at Stewart Park, looking out on the lake, fulfilling the Tarot Card.  We could kiss in your back yard while the girls giggle and play.  We could kiss on the street corner, unable to move our feet. We could kiss in your kitchen, coats still on, bags still in hand.  We could kiss while cooking dinner, the most delicious meal ever eaten.  We could kiss while you do the dishes, bent over my sink.  We could kiss while you trace the veins in my hand.  We could kiss and keep our eyes open. We could kiss in between breaths as you hum in my ear. We could kiss should we ever come up for air. We could kiss after a grueling day of kissing. We could kiss as you step from the shower. We could kiss before we even speak.  We could kiss when no one is looking. We could kiss and make everyone jealous. We could kiss up one side and down the other. We could kiss in one fell swoop. We could kiss when we meet at the volleyball net. We could kiss on the 1st day of each month. We could kiss the day after tomorrow. We could kiss our way around the world. We could kiss and make it into tea. We could kiss and forget everything.  We could kiss and find ourselves home.  We could kiss like there’s no tomorrow.  We could kiss as if our lives depended upon it.  We could kiss when stuck in traffic. We could kiss under Taughannock Falls.  We could kiss in our own private Idaho. We could kiss until the cows come home. We could kiss whenever an hour passes. We could kiss when we should be working.  We could kiss on a crowded street in New York.  We could kiss in front of the girls.  We could kiss and never look back.  We could kiss whenever we put on our shoes.  We could kiss if the sun comes up.  We could kiss every time a bird chirps. We could kiss on a rainy day.  We could kiss over dark chocolate with Pop Rocks.  We could kiss each others fingertips.  We could kiss while rushing out the door.  We could kiss and wake up.   We could kiss on a Tuesday.  We could kiss long and slow.  We could kiss forever.  Yes!  Let’s kiss forever....

LABOR AND DELIVERY PART II

I felt a sense of panic watching the current of water rush under the bed. Was my daughter in danger; was this the emergency that they had talked about? But how much of an emergency could it be if I was already in the hospital? Stunned by the sheer volume of water I just sat on the edge of the bed, completely still. “My goodness!” exclaimed Crunchy Curls, still cheery even when splashed with amniotic fluid. “Let’s get you up and get these sheets changed!”  I scooted my behind off the bed, the sheet sticking to me like tape. Again, I had to turn and weave as not to tangle the mess of tubes and wires that wound around my body.
Climbing back into a clean bed, I was about to ask to speak to the Dr. on call when my midwife, Maureen, burst through the door. “Oh, thank God you’re here!” I said, sitting up.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she winked at me. “So, I heard that I just missed Niagara Falls,”  she laughed.
“Oh my God!” I said, “you wouldn’t have believed it! It just kept coming and coming. Then it stopped for a minute and then started gushing again. Now I’m worried about the baby. What if she’s shriveling up as we speak, totally dehydrated?”
Maureen washed her hands and snapped a pair of latex gloves to loosen them up. “Let’s have a look and see what’s going on,” she said, pulling the gloves on.  “And no, the baby is not shriveling up as we speak. Let’s have a reality check, please. So, lay back and let’s see how dilated you are.”
I hated this; having what felt like a whole hand shoved up my vagina was more pressure on my insides than I felt I could stand. I began to panic. If I couldn’t deal with a whole hand then how was I going to deal with an entire baby morphing her way into reality via my vagina? I was getting scared and my belly started to cramp under the urging of Maureen’s probing fingers.
“Okay, honey,” she exclaimed, extracting her hand and pulling off the gloves, “you’re moving right along at 7 cm. You’re doing just great.”
I actually wasn’t feeling just great and I felt my determination to remain positive starting to fray at the edges.  “I want to get up and move around,” I snapped. “And where the hell is John?”
“Oh, is here here?” she asked, feigning surprise. It was no secret that she wasn’t particularly fond of him, although she had never said it aloud. However, before all was said and done she would have gladly strangled him if I had only given the word. Talk about a missed opportunity!
“He didn’t say that he was going anywhere,” I said. “In fact, I don’t remember seeing him since my water broke.” Apparently, Crunchy Curls had also left in the melee. Maybe they slipped out together, I thought.
“Whatever,” I said. “I need to move around a little.” Just as I started to get up I was stopped dead in my tracks by the most intense cramping/contraction in my gut that I had ever felt. I don’t even really know how to describe it. Steak knife to belly? No. Someone reaching up inside you and grabbing stuff, willy-nilly and yanking as hard as they could? No. Having a Satanic Monster use all their might to squeeze your uterus in a vise-grip? Nope; not even! I yelled out my first in a series of “Holy shits” and rolled around the bed. Maureen came over and took my hand and told me to squeeze and breathe. I vaguely remember her having me drape myself over the head of the bed while she massaged my lower back; her feeding me ice chips; her rubbing my forehead. I remember uttering nothing but the occasional “Holy shit.” The minutes turned into hours of paralyzing contractions and  a total disconnection from time and place.  Had it been a long time? What time was it and how did that relate to anything? How long had I been in the hospital? It was about 3 a.m.; I had been there since 7 a.m. of the previous day.
Finally, Maureen told me that I had to get up and try to pee. “You haven’t peed in a long time and I want you to try.”
Once on the toilet, I felt frozen in place. I couldn’t move and certainly couldn’t pee. Suddenly, I felt the most intense pressure around my anus that I had ever even begun to feel (not counting the time that I was talked into trying anal sex with a ridiculously well-endowed partner....) and cried out, “Oh my God! It feels like there’s a Redwood coming out of my ass!! Help me!”
Maureen burst out laughing and informed me that while it wasn’t likely a Redwood, it was most certainly my daughters head. I put my hand between my legs and felt hair. I screamed, certain that I had entered "Rosemary’s Baby" territory.
Penguin walking, I made it back to the bed just in time for Round 1 of “It’s Time to Get Those Feet into Stirrups Bingo.”  I knew I should have done those damn thigh exercises, I thought, legs spread eagle, thigh muscles taut as guitar strings.
“Here she comes!” exclaimed Maureen. “Reach down and feel her little head.” Given my girth and the position I found myself in, that invitation was a little too Twister for me and I flopped back against the bed, gritting my teeth. Never had I felt such an unconscious urge to push. It was as if my life depended on it.
“Go ahead and push,” urged Maureen. “Give it all you’ve got!”  I held my breath and pushed, my face growing red as a beet and pressure building to a bursting point inside my head. Guttural screams escaped my lips and I was sure that not only was I starring in a remake of "Rosemary’s Baby," but maybe a double feature including "The Exorcist" as well...
“Here come her shoulders!” said Maureen, holding a mirror so that I could see. This was the first glimpse of my daughter and I was once again stopped dead in my tracks, only this time not from pain but from a love so instant and intense that I burst into tears. Gripped by an all-consuming urge to push again, I hunkered into it and my daughter came flying out of my body like a football thrown by the star quarterback. Startled, Maureen fumbled with her slippery body and just barely caught her, purple and wailing. In total disbelief, I held out my arms and held my wriggling daughter for the first time. She was sticky and wet, bloody and misshapen, and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She still is.

DREAMWEAVER

Written at Zee's Writing Studio 5/22/12. Inspired by this painting, "Dreamlight",  by Maxfield Parrish and a Laura Nyro lyric, "I love you so, I always will."










I love you so, I always will.  This is my song as I swing back and forth, back and forth, listening to the wind whisper your name, its soft breath tickling my face.  Will just saying it bring you to me?  Somehow I believe it will, if I time my words to the rhythm of the swing it will act as a spell:  “I love you so,” swing forward, “I always will,” swing back.  I picked this dress for you; I know you will love running your fingers across the billowy fabric, letting it slide from your hands.  I know you will love how the breeze causes the skirt to flutter around my hips; it will remind you of our dance under the moon last night.  I call you to me, once again.  I call you to me, here to this place of stillness and reverie.  What will I say when your face peeks above our rock? Will I squeal with delight or just rush to your arms in silence?  Saying anything but your name seems absurd, inadequate.  Will you pick me up and spin me around, nose to nose, eye to eye?  Will you smile and have on your dancing eyes or will your gaze be heavy and reverential?  Will you wear the trousers from last night, leaves and dirt brushed from the seat?  Will you notice my belt, the amulet you gave me dangling from the end?  Will you notice my wet eyes, overcome with relief at the mere sight of you?  I packed us a lunch--I stowed it behind the far rock out of sight.  I was rushed and nervous doing it.  If Mama caught me; well, I don’t want to say.  I tucked away the ends of the bread from last nights supper and took just a shaving from Mr. Webster’s cheese. Plus one apple, 4 grapes and 2 olives.  That’s enough.  If you’re hungry I’ll let you have it all.  Perhaps I’ll be brave and kiss the apple juice from your chin.  “I love you so,” swing forward, “I always will,” swing back.  The air rushes up my skirt as I swing forward and delights my sticky skin.  A twig cracks behind me and I twist around. Is it you?  My heart throbs as I scan the brush for your silhouette, but I catch not a glimpse.  Do you really think I’m pretty, or just plain like Rebecca Black? Tell me again how my face reminds you of the cool, clear water on the other side of the mountain--how you rushed forward and drank with the thirst of a dying man.  Tell me how my hair feels like the silk of the corn you shucked for supper.  How you want to make a shirt of it so it will always be right against your heart, the silky strands tickling and warming at the same time.  Look right into my eyes, unflinching and sure.  Gold flecks shimmering in the sun, dancing and moving to the song only we can hear.  I stole two of Ames’ marbles because they reminded me of your eyes.  Glittering gold and woven with the loveliest of greens.  I picked them up and put them right in my pocket and ran upstairs where I rolled them around in my palm.  I’m not going to tell you where I put them because if they ask then you won’t know.  I have never done such a thing to poor Ames and I pray that he is never the wiser.  What else am I capable of doing in the name of you?  I don’t want to think about it; I won't.  I would follow you out of these woods, barefoot and with utter certainty.  I would never look back; there would be no trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

HOW COULD SHE NOT

And today, a poem...

How could she not love
your kind and glorious
heart,
shooting out sparklers into the dark,
exclaiming
“Here I am!  Come out and play!”

How could she be immune to
your rose petal lips
cutting velvet streaks
here and there and
here and
here

Is she from another planet?
The obvious Mars, or maybe
even Jupiter?
Does she do everything in reverse?
Speak a different language?
Gag at the taste of
Holiday Spice?

Is she mute to the tone of
your voice,
like honey-blossom tendrils
wrapping everything it touches
in succulent sweetness and
whispered caresses?

Does she just happen to
be looking
the other way
when you
suddenly pulse
and glow,
lighting everything in
your wake?

Is she numb?
Or simply unaware
of every sacred moment
that you hold so freely in every
4-hr. conversation?

And in the same breath
that I wonder and
ponder, so
perplexed and bewildered,
I offer up a prayer of gratitude and
surrender;
Oh, thank you, thank you!!
That she didn’t and couldn’t...

Please carry her
to he who calls her singular name
across the Winds of Love.
Let her be healed by his touch;
scooped up and
rocked  to
their own
secret lullaby.
Beloved forever.

50 THINGS I KNOW ABOUT LOVE, RIGHT THIS MINUTE, BASED ON THE PAST FEW WEEKS BUT, MORE PARTICULARLY, THE PAST FEW DAYS

1.  It really does sweep you off your feet.
2.  It leaves you shaking your head, waiting to “come to.”
3.  It’s best when it shows up in someone you would never expect.
4.  It’s best to take it slow and savor every moment.
5.   Then again, what could be bad about letting it have its way?
6.   It refuses to be controlled.
7.   It’s so delicious that lust, loneliness and desperation try it on as a costume and go out trick-or-    treating.  They eventually get caught red-handed.  
8.   There is no forcing it.
9.   It has no rhyme or reason.
10.   It makes even the dreariest of Ithaca days irrelevant.
11.   It challenges me to stay present to the moment.
12.   It challenges me to stop analyzing.
13.   It’s cause for great celebration.
14.   It challenges my sense of worthiness.
15.   It can really only be experienced, not described.
16.   It tells me to make a beeline to Victoria’s Secret.
17.   It inexplicably causes me to revert to acting like a 15-yr-old.
18.   It allows for minimal sleep.
19.   It's the essence of life.
20.   It's all that and then some.
21.   It brings my various issues right up to the surface.
22.   Which is a good thing, really....
23.   It's necessary to take breaks from it to discover subversive talent on YouTube.
24.   It’s complicated.
25.   It’s simple.
26.   It provides for hours of playlist making on iTunes.
27.   It craves expression.
28.   It causes the windows of creativity to fly open.
29.   It’s best to write a poem about it when you wake up at 3 a.m. and can’t go back to sleep.
30.   It’s in the details.
31.   It says there are no details, it is just that which it is.
32.   It is philosophical.
33.   It's inane.
34.   It's hysterical.
35.   It's the agony; it's the ecstasy.
36.   It can make those around you want to vomit.
37.   It’s an elevation of consciousness.
38.   It goes against “The Rules.”
39.   It laughs in the face of “The Rules.”
40.   It’s better for your heart than a bowl of oatmeal.
41.   It’s a disco dance.
42.   It’s the cha-cha, a waltz, the charleston.
43.   It’s being moved to tears on a regular basis.
44.   It’s driving in the car with all the windows rolled down.
45.   It’s like a million iridescent butterflies alighting on your heart all at once.
46.   It can’t be saved up for a rainy day 
47.   It’s sitting for hours on the couch and realizing that you would be blissfully happy to stay there for  days.  
48.   It really is the end all and be all.
49.   The Beatles were right.
50.   It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

BONUS QUOTE OF THE WEEK

“I put this bra on because my French teacher was coming over and my nipples were sticking out and I didn’t want that.”  Really??

             --spoken to me by a stranger, in an even stranger town, in an unknown neighborhood on a non-existant porch    

                         
‘Nuff said! What could I possibly say after that? Enjoy the day; bras, nipples, French teachers and all!

LABOR AND DELIVERY: PART 1

I made elaborate plans to ensure that the happiest day of my life was to be the day my daughter was born.  While it was nothing short of a blessed miracle, I somehow connotated “happiest” with blissful, rapturous and being fully present. Ha!
Off to the hospital her father and I went, at 7 a.m. on July 10, 2003, so that I could be admitted and induced, at 38 wks, due to a development called polyhydramnious, or, in layman’s terms, excessive amniotic fluid.  Why this happened late in my pregnancy remains a mystery, but I was told that if my water broke “unexpectedly” that it could present an emergency situation. Like what, I wondered? A flash flood? No, more like the pressure of the fluid could cause problems with the umbilical cord.  My midwife used words like “choking” and “strangling”.  Enough said.
So, already Phase 1 of my plan had been seriously mis-managed. Didn’t the Universe know that I was supposed to go into labor naturally and deliver my girl soothingly and all Enya-like into a warm bath at the Birthing Center?? For crying out loud!  Instead, I found myself in the hospital, hooked up to monitors and whatnot.  I was tethered to the bed but comforted myself with the fact that at least I was laying on some crisp, white sheets.  Oh well, just go with the flow I told myself. Really, it’s up to me to create the environment that I want. I had brought my Enya and Stevie Nicks CD’s, lavender-scented candles and favorite pillow and jammies.  Sounds like Girls Night In to me!  How about we order a pizza? What? No food? Oh, okay...
I glared at the smiling nurse as she followed monitor cords and I.V. lines with her fingers, braiding and unbraiding them. Her hair fell in crispy curls, obviously the victims of too much styling product.  A few rogue strands scraped my face and I bit my tongue.
I was told that the Pictocin used to induce labor would cause my contractions to be even more intense and, well, painful than “normal” ones.  I was encouraged to have a walking epidural.  Well, seeing as I was trapped in bed, what was the point of the “walking” part?  Not to mention the fact that I thought I had been perfectly clear in my request to not have an epidural because I was going to deliver my child naturally and Zen-like.  Again, I was informed that given the “gravity” of my “situation” I would need to have an epidural needle in place, just in case, God forbid, I needed to go in for an emergency C-section.  Okay, I’m going with the flow, I reminded myself, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed while the nurse parted my gown in the back, exposing my extra-wide derrière.  What a bitch, I thought, as she poked at my spine.  Oh my God! I thought. Where is this hostility coming from?  Followed by: What’s wrong with you; stop being so hateful! Then: If you’re going to be hateful, get a load of J. over there, snoozing. What the hell is his problem?
My baby’s father was curled up in a chair in the corner, snoring shamelessly. No surprises there, but somehow, in my elaborate planning of how the day should unfold, he somehow miraculously transformed into an attentive, capable, take-charge, mind-reading Johnny-on-the-spot.  Bummer.  Major bummer.  That glimpse of him in the chair was the last time I recalled seeing him until after our daughter was born, although he insists he was “right there.” I remember the midwife being right there, massaging my back, feeding me ice chips and smoothing my furrowed brow, but him? Not a trace. Did I mention that we’re no longer together?
So, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, curled into a “C” shape, bracing myself for the needle that sent my brain into electric freeze as Crunchy Curls squeezed my hands and, all of a sudden, my water broke! It was as if someone has upturned a 5-gallon bucket onto the floor.  A flash flood indeed!  An “Oh!” escaped Crunchy Curls lips as water splashed up over her white Danskos and splattered her nauseatingly cute pink-with-multi-colored-teddybear print scrubs.  She dropped my hands and jumped back, knocking over the tray table and spilling even more water onto the floor. I looked behind me as a river of water wound it’s way under the bed and toward the bathroom in a stream.  “Holy shit!” I exclaimed.  Little did I know that those words were to become my new Zen mantra over the next 12 hours....

HAIL TO THE OWL!!

I still have the God-awful owl lamp that was so prominently displayed smack dab in the middle of the living room of the house I grew up in.  Or shall I say the house I was raised in because, let’s face it, I still haven’t grown up.  This isn’t your run-of-the-mill owl lamp, and yet it’s so ugly and plain that it defies description (of course the plastic wrap remained on the shade so as not to diminish it's tackiness).  I wound up with it by default. Of my Mother’s numerous collections, the Owl Collection was one of the first and most plentiful and included owls of every sort that provided every function of every thing you never even knew existed and wished you didn’t.

After my Mom died, my sisters, father, and I set about the task of going through her various collections of things.  I was shocked to hear that QVC still reported profits in the absence of my Mother’s support. Not only did she go about collecting stuff for herself, but she lived to bestow crazy, random stuff on all of us as well.  Of course, none of us had the heart to say, “Look, Mom, I really don’t need a rhinestone-encrusted tampon holder, or a “music box” from CVS that plays “Love Me Tender” while a porcelain replica of Elvis (looking a lot more like Dracula, I might add) twirls on top.”  I’m serious, this is what we were dealing with! Speaking of Elvis, I have (or, have had, as I’ve finally had the wherewithal to part with most of it) a vast collection of Elvis memorabilia, thanks to my Mom.  I think the conversation went something like this:  Mom: “Paula, do you like Elvis Presley?”  Me:  “Yeah, he’s ok, I guess.”  Translation: Mom: “Paula, do you like Elvis Presley?”  Me: “OMG!!! I love him SO much and want anything and everything about him no matter how ridiculous! In fact, I never want anything that’s not Elvis-related for my birthday or Christmas ever again!!”  

Year after year, that’s what I got: an Elvis watch, many commemorative issues of magazines entirely devoted to Elvis, a cassette of Elvis Does Christmas with the Chipmunks, Elvis earrings, an Elvis phone and numerous series’ of Elvis “baseball” cards and, well, yeah, you get the picture.  I must admit that the phone was pretty cool and I also had an amazing clock where Elvis was decked out in a blue and white checkered jacket and his hips and legs swung as the pendulum. Of course, that broke somewhere along the way, along with the phone, but by God all that other stuff remained intact! There are actually scads of old Christmas and birthday photos of me opening yet another Elvis gift and it has became one of the all-time favorite inside jokes between my sisters and I. And guess what proudly stands in the background of so many of these photos? The treasured owl lamp! It lived on the end table by the rocking chair from Mexico which was by the Stereo Console. Over the years it became like another family member.
So, my sisters and I found ourselves staring dumfoundedly at all this stuff to go through, including the owl lamp.  It was impossible to get rid of, despite it’s hideousness (not unlike some actual family members who shall remain anonymous....).  How I became the Anointed One escapes me. However, there was plenty more to go around. “Oh, my God, do you remember this?” I cried, holding up a stained crocheted owl kitchen towel.  It had a tab at the top that folded over the drawer handle and then buttoned, keeping it in place.  Stuff surfaced that we hadn’t seen in years and we took turns crying out, "Look at this! The roast beef fork!" and "Ohhhh, it's the old toothpick holder!" and "Look! It's the owl folk art burlap thing!!" (another score on my my part).  Things that had seemed so inconsequential now held such strong memories for all of us.  Here was all this stuff that we would never use and really didn’t even vaguely like, but couldn’t bear to part with. This whole owl lineage was something tangible we could hold onto from our childhoods when all other traces seemed to evaporate a little more with each passing year.
The owl lamp now lives in my basement, collecting dust, but, hey, it’s still there, keeping watch.  And Elvis? Well, he hasn't completely left the building yet either...

WALLY

This week I dug into the vaults...this is a piece that I wrote in 1996 (I know!) about a particular shift when I worked as a caregiver at a family care home for people living with AIDS in North Carolina.  The disease was like a tornado then, and strides were just beginning to be made toward managing it.  As I revisit this era, I'm reflecting on how far we've come since then and also how far we have yet to go....


Someone must have died, I think, pulling into the driveway at 8 a.m. on Friday.  There are way too many cars; that’s always a giveaway.  I’m suddenly anxious, not knowing what I’m walking into.  But as a caregiver for people with AIDS, you never do know what to expect.  You only know it’ll be a ride smack dab into the center of chaos.
When I walk in the door of the Chapel Hill “AIDS House,” Craig is stretched out on the couch, glassy-eyed, ready to hand me the reigns.  “Hi, sweetie,” he says.  “Come give me a hug.”  Craig kisses me on the cheek.  Wally is dying, he says, and his friends have gathered around to keep vigil.
Craig and I have been through this before, and yet it’s all new.  Every person’s transition from life to death is different.  The pain is different, the fears are different, the level of acceptance is different.  So I know I’m going into this as a beginner; Wally will have plenty to teach me before it’s over.
We walk back to Wally’s room.  It’s been a week since I’ve seen him.  He looks like a baby bird in a nest, huddled under blankets and buffered on all sides by big pillows.  I kneel beside him and take his hand.  “Hi, Wally.”
He opens his eyes and smiles.  “I waited for you to come,” he says.
“I’m glad you did.”
My throat is closing up.  We sit for a minute in silence.  Wally and I haven’t become especially close, but we’ve had some meaningful talks.  Our time together these past two months has been easy and comfortable, free of the awkwardness that sometimes accompanies a new resident.
When Wally’s friends come in to chat, Craig and I go to the caregivers’ room to do our changeover.  Craig is exhausted.  We have a new resident who needs a dressing change three times a day.  Another is semi-paralyzed, non-ambulatory and in diapers.  We have three others with their own special sets of needs.  And then there’s Wally.
Craig gives me the update:  Wally hasn’t been taking his meds for the last week.  His morphine has been upped to two milliliters every two hours for pain.  When you give it to him you have to steer the dropper along the inside of this right cheek and get it as far down this throat as possible; the thrush has gotten so bad that he gags if you do it any other way.
Changeover done, Craig heads home to sleep.  The phone doesn’t stop ringing all day.  Visitors come, go, come back again.  The residents are attended to.  In the midst of it all is Wally:  in and out of sleep, in and out of dementia, in and out of fighting for his life.
When awake, he smokes continuously.  This makes me crazy, but I can’t begrudge it:  After all, this is one of the last choices Wally has.  He can choose to eat, but he’ll throw it up.  He can choose to get up and visit the bathroom, but he’ll go all over himself before he gets there.  He can still smoke, though, even if he chokes on every drag.
Wally and I argue about diapers.  He says he won’t wear one, and rips it off.  I explain that it’s just a precaution, that it’ll help him get to the bathroom when he needs to go.  I remind him how he unknowingly went while he was asleep, how we don’t always make it to the bathroom on time.
“No,” he says.
I pull out my ace:  “What if you ruin your favorite paisley robe?”
Wally glares at me.  “OK!” he yells.
We put another diaper on.  He is visibly embarrassed.  “I’m only 27,” he says.
“I know,” I say as I stroke his hair, struggling for a way to make it better.  “I’m sorry.”

The doorbell rings.  It’s Wally’s mother and two aunts.  I’ve never met them before, but you can’t miss the resemblance between Wally and his mother.  She’s shorter, though, and wears a navy polyester sweatsuit with big appliques on it--an outfit her son would not be caught dead in.
The visitors make me angry.  Why do people flock to the side of the dying instead of celebrating them while they’re alive?  But I’m cordial, expressing my sympathy as Aunt No. 1 unpacks needlepoint from an old macrame bag, plants herself on the couch in front of the TV and flips through the channels.  She finally settles on Jerry Springer.  Great.
Seeing Mom and Aunt No. 2 heading toward Wally’s room, I rush ahead to make sure he wants to see them.  He says yes; he has things to say.  I close the door and leave them.
When I check on Wally after supper, he’s sleeping, his mother by his side, Aunt No. 2 sits stiffly in Wally’s antique chair.  His breathing is shallow now, his eyes half glazed over with “that look.”  He’s leaving soon.  When I tell the family I’ll give them some privacy, they ask me to stay.  I hate this; I hate being a witness to their guilt.  But as we sit in silence, my anger gives way to compassion.  Wally’s mother touches his face, gingerly at first.  Tears stream down her own face.  She is doing the best she can.  She probably always has.  Besides, who am I to judge?  I don’t know their story.  At least they’re here.

They stay till midnight.  Wally’s mother practically has to be carried to their van.  Aunt No. 1, finally roused from the couch in the other room, says they’ll return tomorrow.  Would I call her if Wally dies in the night, so she can tell his mother herself?  Of course.
Wally lapses in and out of consciousness all night.  Most of the time he’s in a coma; other times, he suddenly decides to get up and rearrange his room.  Around 3 a.m., he sits up and announces that he isn’t taking any more morphine.  He wants to get back on his regular medication schedule, he says.  He is not giving up.
I tell him I’ll do whatever he wants.  But I do try to talk him into continuing the morphine for the pain.
“You’re trying to kill me!” he barks.
“I am not trying to kill you, for Christ’s sake.  I just don’t want you to hurt.”
“Well, I’m not hurting and I want you to leave me alone.”
I resist the urge to reason with him.  You don’t argue with a dying person.  I turn to leave, then stop.  Wally is staring at me.  “I’m scared to die,” he says.  “I’m not ready to die.”  His eyes well up.  He’s kept up a strong front for so long.
A professed Agnostic, Wally starts to talk about God.  Is it too late to strike a bargain? Will God be there to greet him?  I hold his hand, assuring him he’s loved, telling him I’ll stay with him if that’s what he wants.  We’re interrupted by Kim, his best friend for years.  Wally asks to be alone with her.  I go cook breakfast.  It’s 4 a.m.

By 7 the next morning, I’m fading fast.  It’s been a long night.  One of the residents fell out of bed twice.  My body aches from transferring another from bed to wheelchair to toilet and back again, and from helping Wally up and down.  I’ve been running for 24 hours, with nine more to go.
The day goes by quickly:  Wally decides he wants his morphine.  His mother and aunts return, Aunt No. 1 making a beeline for the remote control.  Today Wally’s mother is a wreck, crying hysterically, barely able to walk.  She asks for some time alone before going to see her son.  Meanwhile, Wally’s friends are losing it.  They feel guilty because they’re tired and frustrated, ready for him to die.
Finally, it’s 4 p.m., and Sarah arrives to relieve me.  I almost weep with relief as I pack up my car and give Sarah the updates.  After our changeover, I say my goodbyes to each of the residents, saving Wally for last.
I know this is truly goodbye.  I kiss Wally’s forehead, tell him I love him and I’m going home.  He says he loves me, too, and he wants to know:  Can we continue our conversation on my next shift?  I tell him it’s a date.

TRICKY DICKY: CHAPTER THREE

Tricky Dicky wrenched the dildo from my hands. “Now look here,” he said, unrolling his window. “This is what I like to do when I see a car of college girls coming. I can spot a car load of them girls a mile away.” He slung one end of the dildo out the window while holding the other end in his lap. The wind whipped it up and I could hear it thumping against the side of the truck. Genius, I thought. Those college girls were sure to be wanting some of that. He took his other hand off the wheel and began making a jerking-off gesture. He laughed, eyes darting between Lori and I, grabbing hold of the wheel just as we started swerving into the other lane.
“Wow, that’s quite a trick; being able to lasso that thing while keeping the truck on the road!” I shouted, hoping for the power of suggestion.
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” he said.
Good God!  In the name of all that is Sacred and Holy get us the fuck out of here, I thought. Or did I say it out loud...
“You know,” I said,  “as entertaining as that is, all I can think about is how hungry we are; we haven’t eaten all day. Right, Lori, aren’t you starving?”  I kicked the hell out of her seat, overriding my hesitation to scuff up the toes of my brand new Uggs any more than they already were.  Who knew what could be smeared on the back of that seat?  I loved my Uggs, but let’s face it, once they were marred or stained, that was it.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” Lori mumbled.
“So,” I continued, “my sister is planning a huge breakfast for us and the Efland exit is just a few exits up, right?”
“Well, why didn’t you say y’all was hungry? Tricky Dicky isn’t going to let you go away hungry! I’m gonna get y’all breakfast at one of the best truck stops in North Carolina. I could use a little sumthin-sumthin myself.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s awfully nice of you, but like I said, my sister is fixing us a welcome breakfast...”
He slammed on the brakes and turned on the right turn signal.  A huge sign ahead said “The Flying J! Best ham biscuits in the whole U.S! Cheapest gas! Breakfast all day!”  We flew into the parking lot, brakes hissing and farting, and pulled up next to one of many tractor trailers. The Flying J. appeared to be in full swing.  Tricky Dicky hopped out and came around and opened Lori’s door.
“After you, my darlin’,” he said, bowing. Lori took his hand and climbed down. We have to make a break for it, I thought, looking around. The parking lot was illuminated but, other than the restaurant, there didn’t seem to be anything else around. I climbed down, ignoring the helping hand. God knows where that hand has been, I thought.
The parking lot resembled a huge tail-gate party. Truckers milled around holding steaming cups of coffee and biscuits tucked into greasy wax paper pockets. Music played in the background; we appeared to have landed in country heaven.
“That’s my favorite song right there,Take Me Away,”  said Tricky Dicky.  “Sofie Montana can take me anywhere her little heart desires!”
I sensed another coughing fit coming on. A huge phlegm ball flew out of his mouth and splattered on the blacktop next to my feet. “Hey,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I read in one of them star papers that Miss Sophie has a daughter named Berkely that must be about your age.” He looked me up and down.  “I bet she’s not as fine as you are though.”
“Well,” I said, “Actually, that’s me. Sophie Montana is my mom.”  I shot Lori a look of steel.
“Get outta town!” he yelled, “Stick a fork in me and call me done! C’mon, you ain’t really, are you?” He started jumping up and down like an excited toddler.
“Yeah,” I said, “that would be me.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so!” he said. “Here I’ve been actin’ a fool!”
“Um, I didn’t really want to say anything. You know...Maybe now you can understand how important it is for us to get to my sister’s. We’re planning to surprise Mom.”
“I’ll be damned! Your mama is here? Right now?”
“Well...she’s not actually here yet,” I stammered, “but, you know, when she gets here she’ll have all kinds of security guards and police following her. They keep tabs on our whole family.”
He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the restaurant. “C’mon,” he said, “I gotta hear this over some sausage gravy. I can’t believe that I have a real live celebrity in my midst; darlin’ ain’t this somethin’!”
The lights inside were way too bright and it was way too crowded for the middle of the night.  Aisles were crammed full of racks of Moon Pies and jerky; burlap sacks of country ham hung from twine. Rows of shellacked baby alligator heads with their jaws frozen open sat next to an array of charming bumper stickers like “Ass, Grass or Gas, Nobody Rides For Free.”  Looks like I’ll be filling up the tank, I thought, cause this ass is going nowhere near that crazy motherfucker and, unfortunately, Lori and I had smoked our last joint hours ago. Speaking of Lori, where the hell was she? I spotted her across the store rifling through a bin of God-knows-what. I made a beeline for her while Tricky Dicky dialed his cell phone.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whispered. “In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been trapped in pervert hell with Jethro here, not to mention his amazing talking dildo, and you’ve just sat there saying nothing! And now you’re shopping?”
“But look!” said Lori, holding up an Elvis paint-by-number. “How cool is this? And it’s black light activated!”
“Get a grip!” I said, grabbing the Elvis from her and throwing him back in the bin. “We need to get out of here, seriously.” I scanned the store for Tricky Dicky but didn’t see him anywhere. “Let’s go to the bathroom and figure out what we’re going to do.”
“But what about our stuff?” said Lori. “All of our stuff is in his truck; I have the quilt Grandma made me rolled up in my bag.”
“You what?” I asked. “Oh, never mind,” I said, taking her by the arm, “just come on.”
I had to admit that my heart shrank when I thought about abandoning my beloved Latchel, not to mention everything that was in it. My heart-shaped rose colored glasses, a la Elton John were in there, wrapped up in my favorite purple sheepskin boa. I had begged for the glasses; throwing a toddler tantrum until I got them.  I’d be damned if I’d leave them behind.
“Let’s just find the bathroom and regroup,” I said.

TRICKY DICKY: CHAPTER TWO

Sophie Montana rolled over and looked at the clock.  She sat up too quickly and just as quickly plopped back down, stretched full out and burrowed deep under her custom-made Vera Wang comforter. “I’m not rushing today,” she thought.  “No more rushing. I have all the time in the world,” she chanted to herself. She had made a commitment to Estelle, her therapist, to use the affirmations they wrote out together just yesterday; at this point she would have stood on her head while reciting Deepak Chopra if that’s what it took to simplify her life.
She looked out at the courtyard off her bedroom and relaxed a little. She would get up in a minute and take her espresso out there in the sun. Mornings like this used to be her favorite part of the day, when she could leisurely ease into the day.  At Estelle’s urging, she had hired Oprah’s landscaper to create the sanctuary she had always dreamed of.  She loved the sound of the wind as it rustled through the banana trees and bamboo; the water as it bubbled over smooth stones into the pond dotted with lilies and lotus. Bright peonies and camellias popped up unexpectedly among drooping willows, jasmine and pine.  When she inhaled the scent of the magnolias and sweet olive her body automatically unclenched. It had been months since she had spent any time out there. Well, that was all about to change, starting today, regardless of what Richard said.
It was time to put her foot down and start managing her own career; that was one of the perks of her level of success, that she was finally in a position to call the shots. Not that she wasn’t grateful for all Richard had done and, yeah, she still needed him to manage the details. But as far as what she was going to do and when she was going to do it, well, it was high time to start steering her own limo.
She flipped back the covers and climbed out of bed, stretched up to the ceiling and then slowly folded her body down, one vertebrae at a time, until her fingers swept the floor. This was some sort of yoga “hang” that she was supposed to practice several times a day. No time like the present and wow, it really did feel good. It felt like there was a steel band wrapped around her midsection. Time to schedule an appointment with Sergio to try to unknot this mess. Her body and psyche were screaming for attention. This last tour has really kicked my ass, she thought. But who could’ve ever imagined that she, little Sophie Montana from Bumfuck, Egypt, would be playing to packed houses and sold-out shows everywhere? It still seemed like a dream and she was determined to revel in it, to slow down enough to really savor the ride. Plus, she needed to rest, to recharge her batteries in order to write some new songs. She hardly had time to think these past 9 months, let alone write anything. She had a few bits and pieces on scraps of paper here and there, but nothing substantial. What she needed was some time alone, completely alone, to let her creativity unfurl. The problem was, she didn’t know how to be alone, especially now after being bombarded by people 24/7 for so long. Well, I’ll figure it out, she thought. Right now what I need is some good, strong coffee.
Marcella was in the kitchen and had already cleaned up most of the mess from last night’s welcome home soiree. She turned, a big smile on her face, with arms outstretched, soapy hands and all. “Good morning sweetheart! Oh, it’s so good to have you home!” She wrapped her arms around Sophie, about swallowing her up. Marcella had been with Sophie since the beginning and was truly like family. She was so kind and loving but also thought it her job to protect Sophie from anyone she considered less than sincere. In fact, last night she had sent Mr. Jimmy packing for making a series of snide remarks about Sophie’s latest single, Take Me Away. “Not in this house,” Marcella told him while leading him to the door. She had no problem making those sorts of judgement calls and Sophie allowed it; in fact, she had come to depend on it. One less thing for her to have to worry about.
“It’s great to be home,” Sophie said. “I can’t tell you how good it felt to sleep in my own bed; I woke up in the night and really thought I was in the middle of a dream.”
Marcella handed Sophie her espresso. “Here you go, love,” she said,  “you go on outside and I’ll bring you out a pitcher of water. You need to drink lots of water. Today you relax.”
Sophie took the saucer and gave Marcella another hug. “Thanks, really, for everything.” She was almost out the door when she stopped. “Hey, did Berkely ever call? I left her three messages yesterday, but I can’t find my phone. Did Richard say anything?”
“I have your phone right here,” said Marcella, holding up the embellished iPhone. “Hopefully Berkely is one of your 102 messages...”
“Oh, shit,” said Sophie, reaching for the phone. “I can’t believe I missed her! Where the hell is she? Where the hell is Richard?”
“Not so fast,” said Marcella, holding the phone in the air. “First, you go out and enjoy your coffee. Then, I’ll bring you the phone. There’s nothing that can’t wait a few minutes.”
“You’re right,” said Sophie, remembering her plan to ease into the day. “I’ll be outside. But come and get me if she calls.”
I’m sure she’s on her way, Sophie thought.

I dropped the ball on New Post Friday  :(  Hang tight and I'll be back next Friday with something so riveting.....

FALLING FROM THE EDGE OF COOL

A short story...

One of Sarah’s favorite High School activities was going out on the trail behind the school during lunch to smoke pot with her friends. There was a hierarchy of “cool” and she weighed in about half way up. Seems like she registered about half on most scales. Pretty, but not real pretty; smart, but not real smart; easy but not too easy. Kinda plain but you could tell she tried to jazz herself up a bit. She told me later that she kept her hair permed to look like Robert Plant’s. Auburn waves and eyes that got greener the more pot she smoked. There was always something a little odd about her, a little off.
It was late June, 1977, I believe, and there was a big party on the trial to celebrate the beginning of summer vacation. The belle of the ball, so to speak, was the new guy, Patrick. He sauntered into class the week before, tall and lanky with big brown curls brushing his shoulders and big brown eyes to match. I remember the faded Foghat t-shirt that he had on, that fit just-so, tucked into his brown corduroy bell-bottoms, the ones with the hole right by his left pocket. He wore the most amazing abalone belt buckle I’d ever seen. To say all the girls acted like crazed groupies around him would be an understatement.
On the trail, on that day in June, he lazily tapped a Marlboro out of his pack and asked if anyone had a light. “I do!” said Sarah, probably a little too excitedly. She fumbled in her denim purse, the one she just made in Home Ec from a pair of old jeans, while looking at me, eyes wide. I remember she said she was going to embroider Jimminy Cricket on the front flap. Waving the lighter in his direction, she said, “Here you go!”  When he didn’t take it she waved it a little more frantically and said, “Patrick? Here...” Everyone got quiet as she turned and realized that she was waving a tampon at him, not a lighter. There was a chorus of laughter as she ran away, disappearing like the smoke from his cigarette.

TRICKY DICKY

Thought I'd switch it up a little and post some fiction! This is the 1st chapter of my novel-in-progress....I hope to get many comments//feedback on what you like and what you don't and, well, if you just really don't care....Smoochies!


We saw the lights in the distance; the first we’d seen in an hour. A few moments later, an 18-wheeler skidded to a stop in the gravel in front of us, lights blinking like a lotto machine in Vegas.
We ran to get in--Lori first with her practical backpack and me stumbling behind, feet ice-skating in the gravel while trying to maneuver my knock-off Louis Vuitton “Latchel” (supposedly a cross between luggage and a satchel).  The passenger door swung open.
“What the hell are two darlin’s like y’all doin’ out here at this time of night? Get on in,” we heard.
“I want to sit in front,” Lori whispered, nudging me.  “You get in first.”
No argument here, I thought.  I grabbed a rung on the side of the truck, hoisted myself up and crawled to the sleeping area in the back. It smelled like stale beer, cigarettes and B.O.  Lovely.  I heard the automatic click of the doors locking as we eased back onto the highway.
“Name’s Tricky Dicky,” the driver said, grinning, showing teeth that were certainly no stranger to chaw. He kept glancing between Lori and I, excitedly, as if he expected applause.
“Hey, darlin’ there in the back,” he snorted, “Reach back there in the corner and tell me what you find.”
No fucking way, I thought. For the first time during our little “outing,” fear grabbed me and my whole body seized up.  I envisioned hacked up body parts or his dead mother dressed for the ball, or, even worse, a severed horse head like in the Godfather, an image that still gets me.  I felt around on the cushion under me for wet spots and tried to act casual as I glanced around the cubicle. It was too dark to really see much and my hands came up dry.
“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he said. “Trick Dicky got yer tongue?”  He laughed himself into a spastic coughing fit.
I began kicking Lori’s seat and gave her the holy-shit-big-eyed expression when she turned around. She returned the expression and turned back around.  A little help here, I thought.
“Now,” he said. “Where’re you two goin? I’m on a straight shot to good ol’ F.L.A. and we could have us one helluva party between now and then.”
“Well, actually, I’m just going to check in with my sister and let her know we’re on our way,” I said, digging for my cell phone.  “She lives near Efland and is waiting up for us. If you could just drop us off by the Efland exit she’ll be at the gas station to pick us up.  We really appreciate the ride, uh, Mister.” What was I supposed to say, “We really appreciate the ride Tricky Dicky?”  No way! If I remembered correctly, we were about an hour from Efland.  My sister lived in Chapel Hill and didn’t even know we were coming, but God willing and the creek don’t rise, she would soon enough. Or, more like God willing and we don’t get chopped up into little pieces and eaten for breakfast with some fava beans, she would soon enough.
“Well,” he said, “that’ll work too. Now, what’re y’all names? You must be the quiet one, eh,” he said, glancing over at Lori. “I can’t say you’re the pretty one because you both sure are fine...”  As if! Yeah, Lori, pipe up! What are we gonna do now? Lori had a knack for bailing when the going got rough. I was usually the one to get us out of whatever trouble we happened to be in. Ah, the burden of being quick on your feet... “I’m Daisy Consuelos Virginia Estes,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.” She was hugging her backpack to her chest, stiff as a board.
“Daisy Configaro what?” he said, “what kinda name is that? I didn’t realize I had me a real live senorita here...”
Oh yeah, I thought. And let’s not make it a real dead senorita. What was she thinking? Even he would have to see that with her pale skin and strawberry hair she was about as far from Latino as you could get.
“Oh, Lori,” I said. “She’s not only the quiet one, she’s the funny one. Yeah, Lori, you sure are funny!”  “Actually,” I said, “this is Lori, and my name is Berkely. We’re on our way to visit my sister, but I guess I already told you that.”
“Yesirree,” he said. “Now, let’s get back to business and go on and hand me that thing back there,” he said.
I still hadn’t found my phone but now I needed a cigarette. I found the pack in the bottom of my purse. “Is it okay if I smoke?” I asked.
“Help yerself, darlin’,” he said. “Think I’ll have me one too.”  He flicked open a lighter in my direction and I inhaled the sweet menthol deep into my lungs. I noticed a black panther and Confederate flag on the front of the lighter.  It seemed familiar somehow.
He glanced back at me, looking me up and down.
“Don’t tell me you’re scaart to grab ahold of that thing back there,” he said. “It won’t bite, and neither will I,  we’re just going to have us some fun.”
I don’t think I’m into your kind of fun, I thought. In fact, I would bet my life on it. Actually, scratch that. I certainly wasn’t in a position to bet my life.
Afraid of making him mad if I stalled any longer, I took a deep breath and began walking my hand toward the corner behind me. I touched something cold and rubbery, smooth and round.
You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. I wrapped my hand around what had to have been the world’s largest dildo.  One end smacked me in the face as I lifted it up. It collapsed into an upside down U-shape under it’s own weight; I swear to God that thing was at least 3 ft. long.
Sniggers from the driver’s seat turned into another wheezing fit as Tricky Dicky  struggled to keep control of the truck.
Oh shit, I thought, now we’re going to crash and I am going to be found holding this enormous dildo. I can see the headlines now. If my parents weren’t mortified enough by my behavior already, this would certainly cinch the deal.
“Whataya think,” he yelled, “you like that thing, or what?  Here, hand it up and I’ll show you what I like to do.”
It’s heavy enough to knock him out, I thought, if I just swing it hard enough at his head.

25 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME

1.  In my 20’s, I delivered singing balloon-o-grams for a living.

2.  I met Red Skelton at the Raleigh-Durham airport, eons ago.  He wore a lot of Black Hills Gold      
     jewelry, which was also a favorite of my mother's.

3.  I’m a big fan of tater tots and I don’t eat them nearly enough.

4.  I can’t follow a knitting pattern to save my life.

5.  There was a time when I could play “Bohemian Rhapsody,” in its entirety, on the piano.

6.  I love Neil Diamond, Glen Campbell and Barry Manilow.

7.  I love Elton John more.

8.  I was devastated when I didn’t get the heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses (a la Elton) that I wanted for          
    my 15th birthday.

9.  I sleep best with the windows open and the fan going full-blast.

10.  The first concert I went to was to see Loggins and Messina at Barton Hall in Ithaca, NY in the early
       '70's. Peace, love, and macrame....Danny's Song forever!

11.  I am blind without my glasses.

12.  It’s been 25 years since I’ve had a drink of alcohol.

13.  I’ve had a knack for giving people nicknames since I was a child.

14.  I collect religious memorabilia, but think I’m done with it.

15.  No matter what I do, my houseplants always die.

16.  I’ve rarely met a shoe I didn’t like.

17.  I hitchhiked from NY to FLA, with a girlfriend, when I was 19--and lived to tell...and I will!

18.  My younger sister and I made up our own vocabulary when we were kids; we can go there in an
       instant.

19.  I would walk a mile for some Chick-Fil-A.

20.  I used to sing and play guitar in a neo-country band (The Gringo Girls), in Chapel Hill, NC, in the
       '90's. Cowboy boots and fringe, baby!

21.  Robert Downey, Jr. is my idea of the perfect man.

22.  I wish I had married into a big Italian family.

23.  My favorite person in the world is my daughter. (Duh! Maybe stretching the “random” a bit...)

 24.  I snacked on Milkbone dog biscuits as a toddler, much to my family’s amusement.

25.  I need the sun to feel truly healthy and happy.

TREE OF LIFE

Recently, we drew tarot cards in my writing group for inspiration; I loved the card that I chose, or rather, the one that chose me.  I have had the sense that this new year, 2012, holds such promise for me in ways that I’ve yet to realize.

The card that met my fingers as they crept under the deck read “New Moon,” followed by “Promise”. I tell ya, I’m feeling it! There was a beautiful painting of a couple, arms around each other, sitting on blanket of what I could only assume to be the most luscious, greenest of grass, gazing out at a lake of still waters silhouetted by a blazing sun setting into a sky cloaked in topaz. As if that weren’t enough, I flip the card over and Oh! Here is my symbol of 2012--a magnificent, lush tree standing tall; strong but not overpowering.  Its roots run deep and its branches reach to the sun and glitter with jewels. It is peaceful and vibrant. It is steadfast and assured. This tree is me. And if it’s not me just yet, it’s who I’m becoming. I stand tall, yet don’t overpower (oh hush, naysayers!). My roots run deep and I reach toward the sun, over and over again. I am peaceful and vibrant, steadfast and assured, although often haltingly. This painting is breathtaking and makes me happy; looking at it tugs at my tender heart. My heart feels especially tender these days. Finally, I feel a willingness to let it be tender, to ask what it needs instead of trying to shut it down. I’m having a heart connection with myself instead of always looking elsewhere for that sense of connectedness. It feels like there are jagged splinters, buried deep in my heart, that are coming to the surface on their own; that are working themselves up and out. When I get a splinter in my finger, my tendency is to pick at it, to run and get a needle and dig it out, blood or no blood, and always more pain. The few times that I have just left well enough alone, the splinter always works itself out without a lot of to-do. My heart is letting me know that it’s ready; that I’m ready, for true healing to begin.
Last night while I was watching “Good Luck, Charlie” with my daughter (yeah, I know, the things we do...) I got all teary-eyed when P.J. realized he was really just a pastel-lovin’ guy who got excited about hanging out with his mother’s book club friends and not the goth kid he was trying to be to impress a girl he liked. “Jeez, Mom,” said my daughter. “I know...,” I said. I used to say the same thing to my mother as tears streamed down her face during Hallmark commercials.  I think tender hearts run in our family, but we have a hard time allowing that to be present in ourselves. My family used to call me “sensitive” like it was a bad thing; a slur. For a long time I used that against myself, but not anymore. It’s who I am, for better or worse. I looked again at the picture of this magnificent tree on the card and realized that it, too, was born out of all the splinters that grew up and out of its beautiful, tender heart.

DANCING SOMEWHERE

I used to sit in the bay window in the living room of the house I grew up in and look out over the fields of green and gold.  If it was summertime, I could see my Dad and uncles on bright red tractors, slowly and methodically moving down one row and back up the next, baling hay. My younger sister and I used to keep our turtles on the sill of this window in glass terrarium bowls, or if we were feeling really fancy, in an aquarium. Turtles we begged for continuously on our weekly trips to Woolworth’s in Ithaca. I have no idea how many turtles we went through, because, of course, they always died.  If I close my eyes I can still smell those turtles, an earthy, sour and totally distinct smell.  I loved to curl up on that long, broad sill and daydream about life outside that window.  I don’t recall ever reading there, though, which strikes me as odd because, in retrospect, it seems like the perfect reading nook for a girl of nine.
I preferred to do my reading in the bathtub, sans water, under the bright, warm, penetrating gaze of the heat lamp, which was considered the utmost in luxury back in the ’70’s.  I would drag my pillows, blanket and books into the bathroom, make a nest in the tub, and snuggle into whatever book I was reading at the time, probably one of the Nancy Drew’s or The Wind in the Willows.  There are several family photos of me in that pink tub and it became just another of my peculiarities that my family chuckled over.

Now, I prefer to snuggle up in my plush queen-size bed to read, but I wonder how I would feel if I dragged my pillows, blankets and books into the bathroom and made a nest in my deep, claw-footed tub and hunkered down to read?  Would that girl of nine or ten come and pay me a visit? She pokes her head out occasionally, like the turtles of way back when, but then disappears just when I’ve caught a glimpse.  She went on the lam, not long after afternoons spent gazing out of the bay window or evenings spent reading in the bathtub.  She evaporated a little at a time, bit by bit, piece by piece until she was but a wisp on the wind floating out over those fields of green and gold.  Somehow, I feel that she is my Pied Piper; if I can just call her back to me, then all those scattered dreams will follow suit, weaving and wending their way back to my heart, where they belong.

WORK IT

When I was 11, my best friend K. said she’d give me $5 to wear underwear on my head to a play we were going to at the Hangar Theatre in Ithaca with her family. Her house was my home away from home--the hippie freewheeling home that offered up heavenly smells of fresh-baked yeasty breads on Saturday mornings and the pungent, earthy smells of homegrown on Saturday nights.  I loved her house and wished that my house of silent dinners and unsung songs could be more like hers.  She, of course, longed for the routine and structure that my house offered, which I found to be oh-so-boring. It didn’t take me long to figure out things to do to counteract life in Dullsville; things like wearing underwear on my head out in public. It was a brave move, I tell you, but I was more than up for the challenge.
While the underwear themselves were quite ordinary (plain old white briefs if I remember correctly) they became something extraordinary once that waistband snapped over my head.  My head was suddenly festooned...I pulled and tugged at the panties (I still refer to girls underwear as panties; the only other time that the word “panties” seems appropriate to me is in “don’t get yer panties in a wad”). I pulled them down like a beret, I twisted them up like a turban. Ultimately I just let them lie, looking like, well, a pair of white briefs on my head. K’s parents shook their heads; they were no strangers to my kooky ways and they loved me nevertheless. To their credit, they never acted embarrassed to be seen with me. I paired my new headdress with a tube-top maxi dress and off we went.
I actually felt regal in my flowing gown and crown of ivory.  I sashayed into the theatre as if I owned the place. I mean, if your going to wear underwear on your head in public you need to own it, there’s just no way around it. I do remember feeling a bit exposed under the bright lights of the lobby, but I stayed in character and held my head high. There were double-takes and giggles as we made our way to our seats, K. hanging back and trying to hide behind her Dad.
“Pay up, sister,” I whispered to her once we were in the safety of the darkened theatre. We both burst out laughing and I tore the panties off my head and tossed them to her Mom. “I hope these are clean,” she said, winking at me and stuffing them into her macrame bag.
Just last week my daughter said something about wouldn’t it be funny if someone wore underwear on their head? I said, “You know...” and told her the story. Her eyes got wide and she exclaimed “Mom!” before collapsing on the floor in a fit of giggles. “You’re weird, Mom!” she laughed, and then after a thoughtful pause, “but in a good way...”

That was like getting paid all over again, 38 years later.  I hope to teach her how much fun life can be when you can allow yourself to be kooky unfettered by what others may or may not think. I hope she grows up to be weird in a good way, too. In fact, I think I have an old pair of white briefs that I may need to hand down...

DELICATE SHARPNESS 11/15/11

It was 4 years ago today that my Dad died, at home in Mecklenburg, facing the window that he had sat in front of for as long as I can remember.  I sat on his lap as a child, in front of this window, as he read to me.  I couldn’t tell you what we read, but I remember the thrill of being that close to him, of feeling the strength and security of his arms around me, the comfort of nuzzling my face into his plaid, button down shirt that smelled of clover and hay.  I savored those moments for all they were worth, for my Dad was not an affectionately demonstrative man.
I remember kneeling in front of him, at his desk by that window, my head in his lap.  Pliers in hand, he made little fanfare of yanking out whichever baby tooth happened to be dangling from my gums at the time.
This was his spot; his desk, his chair by the window. It was where you could find him after a long day in the fields, baling hay or cultivating this or that, his clothes dusty, his work boots left on the mat in the laundry room.  I loved to slip into those boots and clomp around house, but only when he wasn’t looking.  They were soft and oily, the color of freshly roasted coffee beans.
It was at this window that the hospital bed was set up 4 years ago.  It was so strange to see a bed there instead of his desk and chair as they were what had always been there. Just the simple act of moving that desk and that chair from that spot made everything else seem skewed and off balance, a gesture that truly indicated that nothing would ever be as it was before. Everything would forever be changed; nothing could ever put things back in their proper place regardless of how many attempts were made to rearrange things and circumstances.
I remember the snowstorm that evening as I drove pell-mell from Ithaca back to our Mecklenburg home with my oldest sister in my father’s new van.  We had left the house about an hour earlier to pick up my daughter from daycare and I was just getting her out of the car seat when I got the call. A few flurries dusted my eyelashes and I was startled by their delicate sharpness.  By the time we got to Meck the snow was falling in sheets and I couldn’t see regardless of whether I used my high or low beams. It was as if we were driving into a tunnel of snow and I was hypnotized by the rhythmic slapping of the windshield wipers. We felt as if Dad were making it snow and it seemed right and beautiful although we couldn’t have told you why.
A few weeks later I was alone in my car, driving back downtown from the mall.  Looking out over the hills and land that my Dad had loved so (he said that although he had travelled the world there was no place as beautiful as right here) I began to sob, feeling the grief that engulfed me so completely then, and now tends to ebb and flow. I felt so lost, so confused, so angry, so everything.  My relationship with my Dad had been complicated; a source of mystery and conflict for both of us, I think.  And only recently have I been able to know that on the other side of that intense conflict lay the presence of love; a deep and soothing balm of love that had always been there.  Suddenly a car merged in front of me, it’s license plate simply said “Asa.”   Dad was letting me know that he was okay, that I was okay, that we were okay.   My Dad.  Asa.

TATTOO YOU

I got my first tattoo in a dingy trailer at the Trumansburg Fair sometime in the ’70’s. The exact year escapes me as do a lot of details from that era.  Memories swirl about like the fog of smoke that was my constant companion during that time.  I had to have been 14, maybe 15.  Nevertheless, the fair was the place to be for high-schoolers of my ilk and the massive bleachers provided the perfect hideout for clandestine meet-ups of the drug-induced variety.  The whole aura of the fair was very rock ‘n roll back then, and I was easily transported into another realm as I crossed through the gates and into the fairgrounds.  Bright lights illuminated the surface but failed to cut through to the seedy underbelly, which was right up my dark alley.  I began, then, to realize that it’s not so much where you are, but what can be born out of where you are. Yeah, I was still in Trumansburg, NY (literally a stone’s throw from Podunk, if you catch my drift...) but this T-burg was nowhere that I had ever visited before. It had been transformed into what I could then have only imagined Las Vegas to be. All glittery and flashing and loud, thumping music and high-pitched carnival music and sharp smells and bizarre, magnetic characters. Sinewy carnies with faded tattoos and dangling cigarettes called out to me every few steps, trying to seduce me into their stalls to try my hand at winning life-size fuscia llamas, dangling from ropes as if they had just been hung. 

“C’mon little darlin’,” they taunted. “I won’t bite...”

“Forget it then!” I’d holler with a backward glance over my shoulder, watching the cigarettes drop from their lips.  Sexual energy crackled like the grease from the fried dough booth.  I wanted nothing to do with the boys from my high school, with their smooth skin and part-time jobs stocking shelves at the P & C. These circus guys who didn’t give a shit and thought nothing of turning up a bottle of Jack Daniels and wiping their mouths on their grease-stained sleeves while undressing you with their eyes all the while pulling this lever and that and clicking bars into place so that the little kids wouldn’t fall out--these were the guys for me!  Again, the guys who reminded me the most of Keith Richards. Which brings me to my tattoo.

I decided that I would profess my love for Keith by getting a commemorative tattoo of the Stones logo--the famous lips and tongue painted by Andy Warhol. The same logo that adorned the walls of my room, the same logo that my older sisters had attempted to paint on the back wall of their closet, the same logo that I had on countless t-shirts and memorabilia.  I didn’t realize that this was what I’d decided to do until I found myself standing in front of the tattoo “parlor” at the fair on that muggy night in late July. With enough Mad Dog 20/20 under my belt to push me over the edge of doubt, I declared my intention to my older, just as wild, sister. I just happened to have a keychain with said logo dangling from my macrame purse to show the “artist” who was intensely adorning another girl who looked like, she too, had consumed her fair share of Boone’s Farm. He was fat and sweating profusely through his threadbare once white tank top. His prominent ass-crack greeted me from the too small stool he swallowed up. The air smelled sharp and sour; a thin film of dirt covered the counters and I don’t remember whether or not he wore gloves.  I tend to think not.  My sister, wild as she was, tried to talk me out of it. “You’re gonna be an old lady with boobs down to here with a tongue stretched down like some disgusting frog's tongue!” she pleaded.   

“It’s going to go here,” I said, pulling down my tube top and pointing to the very crest of my right breast, just before it swelled. “Not right on my boob!”

I fumbled with my key chain and had finally loosed it from my purse when the tattoo guy stood up and, thankfully, hiked up his trousers (Mick says “trousers”, you know...).  The girl grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself up, wobbling a bit. She gazed adoringly at the new vine wrapped around her ankle.  “Gotta keep it slathered for the 1st five days,” the tattoo guy said, grabbing a jar of Vaseline and scooping out a big glob with his index finger. He gently rubbed it over her angry-looking ankle.  “After that just keep it dry as best you can till it scabs over and then you’re good to go.”  

She handed him a $20 bill and limped down the rusty aluminum steps.

“Does it hurt to walk?” I called after her, my nerves kicking in.  My voice was drowned out by the tinkling of the merry-go-round and she didn’t answer me. I looked at the guy. “Does it hurt her to walk?” I asked him.

“Nah,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “She’s just favoring it. She’ll baby it for awhile and then forget all about it. Now, what can I do you for?” he asked, moving stacks of drawings in plastic sheets until he unearthed an overflowing ashtray.

“Well,” I said, thrusting the keychain at him. “I want to get this, here,” pointing to my right breast. Well, just above my right breast... 

A small smile threatened the corners of his mouth. “You do, do ya?” he said, handing me back the keychain. “I can do this one in my sleep.”

“Really?” I said. “So how many have you done?”  I noticed that my sister was gone. She had apparently slipped back into the night to pursue her own adventures. I suddenly wished she were there.

“Too many to count,” he said, waving his hand as if he were shooing away flies. Come to think of it, I think he was shooing away flies...

I reached into my purse and found my Camel Lights and, yes, Rolling Stones flip-top lighter. I needed a cigarette.

“Have a seat right here,” he said, gesturing to the metal chair in front of me. “And I have just the thing for this, uh, occasion...”  He fumbled through a pile of cassettes before holding one up in victory. He inserted it into the portable player and made a big show of pushing the play button.  Mick’s sultry voice echoed in the small space; “Please allow me to introduce myself...” he drawled.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” the tattoo guy continued, drawing back a stained curtain that hid a small bookshelf, “I think you could use a swallow of this.” He pointed to a bottle of Jose Cuervo. 

A tiny worm, protectively curled around itself, floated on the bottom.  “Now you’re talking!” I cried, hiding my nervousness. And it just so happened that Jose and I were already great friends. He produced a couple of Dixie cups and poured us each a glug. “Bottoms up!” I sang as we toasted and tossed back the fiery liquid.  He plopped down on the stool, which groaned under his weight, and he rolled back and forth across the counter, gathering up little pots of ink. I sang the “hoo-hoo’s” in “Sympathy for the Devil”; my favorite part, and swayed back and forth.  I wondered what my sister was doing. 

“Alright, so what size are we going for here?” he asked, reaching for my tube top. My hands flew up and stopped him. I pulled down the top ever so slightly, exposing the top of my already well-endowed chest.  

“You know,” I said as casually as I could. “About the size of a quarter, I guess.” I made a circle with my fingers to illustrate the point.

“Okey doke,” he said. “So, have you ever gotten a tattoo before?”

“Nope,” I said. “This is my first one!”

“Any questions before we get started?” he asked. “It’ll prick a little but won’t really hurt and it shouldn’t take long a’tall cause it’s small. It’ll run you $20.”

“Okay,” I said, fumbling for another cigarette. “Can I smoke while you’re doing it? And if I need to take a break can you?”

“Yup and yup,” he said. “Ready?”  

 “Ready,” I said. The tequila had begun to work it’s magic, unfurling it’s warmth throughout my body and I felt calmly excited.

He tore open an alcohol packet and wiped the cold square around my exposed flesh in a circular motion. He picked up what looked like a medieval dentists drill and dipped the end in dark ink. The motor whirred to life as Mick sneered “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name...”

The tip of the drill met my skin and a cloud of ink spread out like a fan. He dabbed at it with a wadded up paper towel and kept on drawing and dabbing. I watched in fascination and growing apprehension, wondering how this mess was going to even remotely look like my keychain. It was surprisingly painless. There was an obvious sharp pinch that was quickly followed by a sting, not unlike the feeling of having skinned a knee. Tolerable pain, obviously helped by my liquid medicinals. We didn’t talk while he worked; I didn’t want to distract him and I was lulled into a sort of trance in which I watched what he was doing as if he were doing it to someone else. Each time he dabbed I could see the picture taking shape and I grew more and more excited. I chain-smoked, tilting my head up and twisting my lips as I exhaled as not to blow smoke in his face. This was actually fun, I thought. I wondered if he needed an assistant. In what seemed like just a few minutes, he was done. He cleaned off his work with another alcohol wipe and sat back to look. “Now that,” he exclaimed, “is one good looking tongue!” 

I looked down at my chest. There is was, in all it’s glory. A perfectly rendered depiction of my beloved’s logo. I was thrilled and jumped up to hug him, almost knocking him over.

“Whoa, now,” he jumped back. “Don’t go moving quickly on me like that. I get startled real easy and you don’t want to startle me!” He wiped off his hands and held out his arms.

“Thank you!” I cried. “I love it!” We hugged. 

“How about one for the road,?” he winked at me, reaching for the tequila.  He poured us each another generous glug. I chugged it down in three gulps and felt my eyes water. How I loved that burn!

He gave me the Vaseline spiel and applied a thin gauze over the tattoo to protect it from rubbing on my clothes. I gingerly pulled up my top, smoothed my hair and slipped him a $20 and a $10. I’ve always been a good tipper.

Holding my head high, I slung my purse over my shoulder and made my way back into the bright lights to meet my fate.  And my mortified mother. But that’s another story...